In the old stories there was a great temple at the heart of a forest, and inside it stood a door of pure light behind which dwelt the Lord himself. Many seekers came to that door, but it would not open for them.

First came a scholar with a cart full of books. He stood before the door and recited everything he had read about the Lord — his thousand names, his measureless size, his powers. He argued and proved and explained for three days and three nights. But the door of light stayed shut. "I have described you perfectly," the scholar complained. A soft voice answered from within: "You have described Me. You do not yet know Me."

Then came a strong man who tried to force the door, pushing and heaving. It did not even tremble.

At last came old Devala, the sage. He carried no books and used no force. He simply sat down before the door of light with tears of love shining in his eyes, and he loved — not the idea of the Lord, but the Lord himself, the great Friend he had come to feel in every creature of the forest. He did not demand to be let in. He only loved, the way a child loves, completely and without conditions.

And then a wonderful thing happened. As his love deepened, Devala began to understand. He saw, all at once, who the Lord really was and how vast — not as words on a page, but as a living truth glowing in his own chest. The knowing and the loving were the same thing now, two names for one light.

And the moment he knew the Lord truly, the door of light did not so much open as melt away. There was no gap, no waiting. Devala simply stepped forward — and the river of his small self slipped quietly into the great sea, and the two were no longer two.

The scholar, watching from outside, finally understood. "It was never a door for cleverness or strength," he whispered. "It was a door that only love could open."